Christmas
by insidejokes
Summary: She cannot know, he can't taint her last memories of him with his death. Not today, of all days. It is Christmas, and it is this especially painful injustice that steels him.


_**This is dedicated to dveleniet on tumblr for her glowing review of the whouffle one-shot I posted there. Hopefully this lives up to your expectations (and I apologize in advance).**_

No, no, no, not now, not now, _please _not now.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears her footsteps padding into the control room, and he can feel her hesitation.

"Doctor?"

He is hunched over the console of the Tardis, back to her. He knows that the tension in his shoulders is painfully evident, but does nothing to relax them- it is all he can do, now, to stop himself from visibly shaking, from crumbling and allowing whatever illusion of control he has to dissolve. She cannot know, he can't taint her last memories of him with his death. Not today, of all days.

It is _Christmas_, and it is this especially painful injustice that steels him.

He spins to face her, smile in place.

"Right, he says, "you're ready, then?" They come face to face, and when she looks up at him, though she smiles, her brow furrows in confusion.

"Are you alr-"

"Y'know," he says loudly, "I think it's been snowing, what do you say we go and have a look?" _I'm dying, _he cries in his mind, _I'm not alright at all_; but it's Christmas and she's so happy, despite her slight concern, and he can't. Can't ruin her growing smile, can't halt the look in her eyes as their gazes meet, can't stop himself from leaving her (how long, now?).

He can't.

And she relents, with a laughed "A bit too much eggnog, Doctor?", and hops down the steps to the door. He looks at her retreating back, allowing his face to twist in pain for just a second. It hurts, it hurts, but she's opening the doors and is so beautiful.

He joins her in the doorway of his spaceship, looks out at the gently falling snow, then back to her. He extends a hand toward her with a purposeful bow that he knows will make her giggle. "Walk you to the door, ma'am?"

She takes his hand in hers, playing along. "I'd be most obliged, good sir." And there is a laugh in her eyes, (will this be the last he sees?), so he pulls her with him as he practically skips out into the snow. The snowflakes dance through the air, dotting her hair and darkening her cheeks with a rosy blush. Her hand feels especially warm in his, now they're in the freezing air; and as he clings to the warmth of her he can almost convince himself that this is an ordinary merry Christmas Eve and yes, that he'll see her next Wednesday.

They reach the doorstep, both slightly out of breath. Their eyes lock, and as she looks up at him, his smile is entirely real. She is close enough that the visible puffs of her breath touch his nose, and far enough for him to remember that he's never going to bridge the gap.

He lifts her hand, still held in his, to his lips. She does not look away from him, and when she speaks she is entirely Clara, no joking now.

"Thank you, Doctor." There is an obvious contentedness about her, and he tells himself to ignore the flashes of pain through his hearts. She continues, swinging slightly their connected hands. "For the past year, and for today. It's been a..." she seems to struggle for the word, "well, it's just been magical." She laughs slightly as she finishes, as if embarassed.

He cannot trust himself to respond, today of all days, and so squeezes her hand gently. "Happy Christmas, my Clara."

"Happy Christmas, my Doctor." It is a beautiful sort of silence, he thinks, for a long moment that passes too quickly. Then, very suddenly, she leans up onto her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek. She ducks her head, then looks up and says a bit too casually. "See you next Wednesday, then?"

"Right." He nods enthusiastically, finally dropping her hand. The distance seems bigger now, and he wants nothing more than to pull her close. He fears, though, that if he were to do that, he'd never let go.

He has to leave.

He has to go back to his Tardis, and die in solitude, and never come back; and leave her to forget her Doctor.

_Go_, he tells himself.

"Right," he repeats, smiling brightly. "I'll be seeing you, then." She grins back, then turns, one hand on the doorknob, to enter the house.

And perhaps it's the sight her her turning away.

Perhaps it's the goodbye that never came.

Whatever the reason, as Clara moves to open the door, the Doctor spins her into him, and kisses her without the smallest speck of restraint. She responds immediately, pressing into him and wrapping her arms loosely around his shoulders and neck. One hand at the small of her back, the other winding into her hair, the Doctor has just one coherent thought: he truly, truly has terrible timing.

She is the one to pull away first, looking up at him with an expression of total shock. They are close, now, closer than before, breath mingling and noses touching, arms still wrapped around each other.

"You kissed me," she says, sounding entirely shellshocked.

"You blushed." he responds, and this time she is the one clutching him to her, lips pressing against his. And somehow his hands know what to do, and he holds her to him. He lifts a hand to push a strand of hair out of her face, and, all at once, she pulls back abruptly and with a gasp, looking at his hand.

His hand, which is currently glowing bright gold, emitting a flurry of golden sparks that fly up and mingle with the snow.

There is a long and terrible silence.

"You-" she stammers, and he holds his head in his hands, wishing to disappear right now.

"I'm sorry." he breaths, and she shakes her head incredulously.

"But you're-" and she stops again, unable to finish.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, "I'm so, so very sorry." He dares to look toward her, and knows that the wetness in her eyes mirrors his. "I had to do that, once, before-"

"You're dying, Doctor." she gasps the words as if a knife is being twisted into her gut, and his gut churns at the pain on her face. "You're regenerating, and you weren't going to say _anything._"

"It's Christmas," and he can hear the plea in his voice, and her arms are around him once more, her face buried in his chest.

"It's not," she chokes, fingers winding into the fabric of his shirt, "it's not fair."

"I'm sorry." he says again, and doesn't know quite what he's apologizing for: trying to hide the truth, or failing to do so, or for running away with her in the first place and causing them all this much pain.

The terrible part, though, the really horrible truth?

He wouldn't change any of it, not one second.


End file.
